


I know I won't be leaving here (with you)

by linggyboi



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M, edling - Freeform, fu i think and looks at smudged ink on wrist, i did this with limited chracters im sorr y, i mentioned roy, lap cheong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-21 00:11:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linggyboi/pseuds/linggyboi
Summary: Even if Ed is very sweet, Ling is still a possessed future emperor and Ed is still Ed.





	I know I won't be leaving here (with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greedlings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedlings/gifts).



> Merry Christmas darling! Sometimes i want a world full of soft things and the experiences these boys never got to have, like dating and having some non fighting dumbassery fun and cultural exchanges y’know? This however isn’t one of these things because i am absolutely horrid at writing happy endings. 
> 
> Hnnghhh i want to write a coda so bad about being consorts and shite but it isnt really logical with this verse i want them to RELIVE THEIR CHILDHOOD GODDAMN IS THIS TOO MUCH TO ASK
> 
> Oh yeah, all the artwork is by Pre-Ralphitete artist John William Waterhouse, hover on the pics for their individual names.

Exhibit 1

The only welcome the stranger in the garish yellow overcoat gets from Amestris is Alphonse brute handling his limp body like a rag doll at a tea party and what is clearly to him, not enough food. And imprisonment too, but that comes later. Anyhow food is food, so the stranger smiles with bright fervour and proceeds to charm the trousers of these two gentlemen- _or uh one teenager and his entity-like sibling and oh dear metal trousers, Ling is so, so stupid_ \- off while simultaneously clearing the plates.

The stranger, who introduced himself as Ling Yao seems pleasant and open with his wide smiles and undeniably (but Ed’s going to deny that anyway) disarming charm while describing his journey from Xing with generous sweeps of his arms and wry twists of his wrists. Hem and hawing over rendanshu even when Ed finds out that Ling can’t do shit with alchemy. That fuzzy feeling of disorientation lasts for a few more minutes until the idiot had to ask about the Philosopher’s Stone. (As things are, no one is nice without a catch, everybody wants a piece of this world to call their own.) The smell of burning wood filling his nose as Ed tastes bile at the back of his throat, Ling’s amiable gaze twisting like gutted eels in Ed's grasp.

Exhausted and disappointed, Ed brushes him off after that and earns a blade near his neck and a sword under Al’s armpit. Absolutely brilliant, this is why he never picks up strays even if they're lovely, accommodating and don't ask stupid questions.

Anyone who announces that they want to be immortal is asking for a massive Edward Elric knuckle sandwich special, bringing up these type of idiotic antics in Rush Valley may be alright, but not for long. Ed has a warped feeling of hopelessness for this idiot, be it however relentless he is, the Philosopher's Stone is a stupid object to ask for even if he himself is looking for it too. Ling must be borderline insane when he announces that he wants to immortal, brat must’ve got everything he ever wanted.

Anyhow, he whoops Ling’s _ass_ assin girlfriend’s ass (get it, get it?) and wipes his hands off the Xingnese shits. Good fucking riddance.

 

“Al.” Ed clenches his fist on the way to Winry's, hopefully he'll escape with a relaxing massage via Winry's soft pillowy wrench because his automail is completely severed. It’s not Al's fault for being kind, “Next time you pick up a stray, make sure it isn't a freeloader and a shithead.”

“Oh,” he adds, “also make sure that its eyes aren't shifty.”

When Ed enters the automail repair shop the bastard is there, sitting, sipping copper tea from fine china with Mr Garfiel. Ed almost pisses himself right there and then in absolute rage.

 

B-side

“Lan Fan,” Fu almost complains, “The young prince has gone missing again.”

The Prince of the Yao Clan and 12th in line to the throne of the Xing empire muses and lingers about like incense, considering the advancing racket it seems like all his grasping on straws has paid off.

All warfare is based on deception. With the addition of conflict, it becomes a endless cycle on getting what you want and not what you need. But that doesn’t mean warfare isn’t about compromise, sacrifice and of course, devastating loss. He has come prepared. Any loss he suffers will be disregarded over the welfare of the nation, that is the true spirit of a prince and a rightful king. It’s a useful attribute that he’s a master at deception, the other qualities of a prince can come later if needed.

But first, Ling needs to go fishing. Rumpling his attire, Ling pushes his bangs up with a gentle swoop and raises his arms-

Hook.

 

Laying his body on the alley where the unmistakable owners of chi (and of course the ruckus) are approaching soon, approximately within a minute, he wonders about that one irregular chi while a small cloud of dust makes his nose itch. Ling slackens his muscles while a large shadow blocks the simmering sun, thanking his often bouts of hypoglycemia and rapid metabolism for the idea.

Line.

 

“Come here, Ed!”

“You’re acting like you do when you see a kitten. Did you find a stray or something?”

And sinker.

 

Ling almost laughs when he gets heaved up by his jacket, this land is indeed full of surprises.

Lan Fan and Fu can yap all about integrity and dignity, but no one knows he’s a prince here and no one expects a kid to go for immortality of all useless obsessions. He doesn't need his faceless mother to tattoo the words on his back, doesn't need an army of men or flashy armour to fulfil his responsibility. He has the four words tattooed on his heart, his body belongs to his people, his voice belongs to the suffering. The Emperor may be wilting in the heat of the throne room, but there is always a replacement for the phoenix of Xing. There is always a resolute back for the people to fall on, their trust a new weight on his shoulders he never seems to carry right. It seems to fall flat under the foreign light of the sun, like writhing pantomime shadows in staged drama, with all their brazen glory and fake blood. He needs to act fast before it all crumbles into dry sand, he needs to be stronger.

Anyhow, Ling catches himself before he falls flat too soon, it never does well to dwell on frivolous doubts when the truth is well within his reach and if acting like a fool gets him this far, he might as well continue.

“I’m dying to get my hands on it, know where might I find it?”

The state alchemist face darkens that his mention of the Philosopher’s stone and Ling feels a twinge of sentimental hesitation if his hand was forced to subdue the Elric Brothers, they were quite genuine, an almost naive-like sincerity Ling hasn't seen in years other than in Lan Fan and Fu. But he’s in pursuit of information, in relation to that, power, strength and some of his elders have pointed out that he wants it all. Even so, he hopes, wishes in futility that his ancestors may bless him, however small their affections for him, because _he does._ And these pesky emotions in the way serve nothing for his clan, his future subjects waiting in Xing.

But Lan Fan and Fu aren’t the diplomatic types and so isn't Edward Elric and in extension, his brother. It’s expected that they fight. Might as well enjoy the clouds of sand and the screech of metal. Such hotheads, he hopes all of them will turn out alright.

After the dust settles, Fu, in his own reverie of a country with bustling streets and melodious chimes of voices jerks up and sighs, “He’s gone again.”

 

Another damp alley, another old trick, Ling leans on the warm brick wall in the shadows and lifts his pesky fringe again.

 

Exhibit 2

Ed doesn’t know what was he thinking about when he grabs onto Ling as Gluttony stretches his ribs. Ling’s face freezing in trepidation or whatever emotion he can afford because Lan Fan is staring at him but her eyes are clouded over, sharp and almost envious.  
  
It’s not Lan Fan but it does the trick.  
Cutting her arm off for some idiot, now that’s some major sacrifice. There's bound to be some residual emotion holding Ling back. If Ed knew his leg would snitch on him in exchange for some fucked up glob of human intestines and skin he wouldn’t even risk his drop of blood, so it was a great idea to grab onto Ling because the homunculi needed him for- something, feels great to be needed nowadays. Yup, pat on the back for Edward Elric, resident genius of Amestris and occasional do-gooder for freeloaders and parasites.  
  
The thing is, sometimes he doesn’t think at all, and sometimes he thinks too much and now he doesn’t know where did that dumbass move stem from. There are soft sludges of blood around him and the smell of soot but he doesn’t regret what he did, even if he has no idea how to crawl out of wherever the hell he is right now. Ling’s voice lighting the whole cavern with his torch in hand and his piss ass attitude in tow. (Good thing that didn't get left behind huh.) But Ling’s alright, he’s fine, bare the few scratches and bruises and the terminally dumb face. Ed lets out a breath and freezes.

Someone, presumably Envy grabbed onto his leg while Gluttony swallowed them, Ed fumbles, quickly trying to take apart the already sparse concerns Ling had said recently while Ling offers to recite the whole room service menu and now Ed doesn’t know whether to grumble in annoyance or just laugh. _Because it’s Ling_ , his brain hisses helpfully. The boy in question tentatively staring in return before insulting him. ( _Small? I’ll show you small, you idiot-_ )  
The moment long past, running late in the train station and gone, folded into a wisp and jammed into his pocket for consideration, later.  
  
Ling lights another torch, and another torch, and then another torch, giving a flow of smart-ass comments that trickle in variety from absolutely shittingly obvious to insightful until they stop entirely. Ed feeling bone tired, restless and more grumpy than usual, if he’s stuck here forever what would happen to Al? To Winry? To the people counting on their return?  
Al’s going to feel terrible for a while, but it won't be for long. Ling's hesitating hand on his elbow a welcomed warmth, assuring that they'll get out of this hellhole alive because there are people counting on both of them. For Ling, his country. And for Ed, his whole fucking life is waiting for him to step foot outside Gluttony's gaping maw.

The only question worth asking is when?  
  
Ed counts the splashes of blood they leave behind until the double digits turn triple and he stops hearing double splooshes, Ling’s head resting on a log and rasping for breath. At Ling’s admission that he’s hungry, Ed steels himself to leave, telling himself that Ling wants him to leave, he’s dead weight plus he got himself here- each trudge forward earning himself a twitch in the eye. He is not going to give that freeloader parasite a fucking ride, he isn’t.  
  
And then he runs back to carry Ling, slab of warm meat weighing like a bulky tower, this would be a romantic comedy slash sob story if they weren’t in Gluttony stomach. Ling does not look happy eating his shoe. But his exasperated smile means the world, however the short respite it offers. Something, somewhere in Ed’s head must be fucked up after the gazillion wrench dents in his skull, but he doesn’t think about dying here. He waits for a revelation but it doesn’t deliver.  
  
Because they cop a good old pummelling, mincemeat style later via Envy, meet a creepy Von Hohenheim lookalike that reeks in a toga, his broken arm gets completely healed while Ling looks ballistic and ragged in the edges, yet well enough to argue. His figure almost blurry, almost flickering until Ling agrees, does a magic trick of his own reassured consent ( _"Don’t shoot Ed! This is what I want!"_ His eyes suddenly soft in the undercurrent of seizing what he wanted but not what he needs. Does Ed know what he needs? Were his broken ribs okay? Was he still hungry?) and disappears altogether.  
  
Because Ed’s not the only someone who’s waiting for Ling.  
The realization comes late, parcel long gone and a note in his face asking him to come and pick it up later, maybe never. Ed doesn’t watch Ling take the Philosopher’s Stone, he’s lost too many people to the pretence of immortality. He doesn’t watch, but the only thing he can do is stare at Ling’s struggling form until it isn’t him. The smile on Greed’s face almost rivalling Ling’s when he’d received the stone.

 

Exhibit 3

Ling gives Greed two choices.

Greed grits his teeth while the idiot laughs, bright as bells and says some mumbo jumbo in Xingnese.

**祸莫大于不知足, Misfortune befalls those who are greedy.**

 

Exhibit 4

It takes one month for Edward Elric in his full glory to realise the full repercussions of defecting and immediately fraternizing with the now not enemy. If, what you call the enemy is a squinty-eyed ambitious fake ass guy and he’s funny, kind and loyal too but _that is not the point_ Ed hisses to himself because Ling is still a con man three thirds possessed by an also fake ass homunculi with major daddy issues tagged along by two beefcake patties that apparently enjoy being beefcakes. So maybe Colonel Bastard's right, maybe he's a bit bonkers, maybe Ling's a bit fucked in the head- oh no Ling's _definitely cracked_ in the head, because who the hell accepts a Philosopher's stone like a free bowl of noodles that has the word poisoned written all over the goddamn bowl and the table and oh wow, there’s signpost too if you’re too boorish to look- so yeah they're all fucked anyway, might as well take it in a stride.

Ling's back, if only for a while, bubbly and overexcited for five minutes until finding out that there's only canned food to eat, which he droops a bit at and then proceeds to obliterate and turn their resources into a black void. Ed watches him while he finishes his meal and uses up his last _fake_ dregs of energy to drag and drape himself over Ed's side. The evening campfire making Ling's face on one side a warm ochre orange from the usual gauzy sheen due to Greed's peckishness. The other side of his face a portrait of grief in study, the pupil, now dark brown like tree bark because Ed is now a renounced or renowned poet, squinting forward into the forest with a grim determination and boyish exuberance. Or pure saturated stupidity. And Ed wants Ling to smile, because a not smiling Ling is a blight to this sad world of Ed's little corner.   _Shit_ , he must've said that out loud because Ling's laughing now, sweet and bright peals of giggles. Ed feels like his IQ just dropped fifty points at that and his brain is gloppy like flour and molasses but he weirdly doesn’t mind.

Ling stares at him funny but rarely talks as it is now with Greed, maybe the asshole’s giving him headaches. Ed heats up a bit at that stare and proceeds to give as good as he gets, remembering the State Alchemist examination with everyone sizing him up and this must be it. The uncollected parcel. The unresolved notice. Ed can't help feeling like he's swallowing chunks of lead. As if the look that Ling gave him at the food stall is unfurling into an expression more realistic in disposition. Ling smiling shrewdly, eyes sharp and god fucking damn his sentimental nature.

Ed's a realistic guy, he doesn't blame Ling. In this war, everyone wants something in someone, everyone wants to carve a human-shaped hole in the earth, blood, guts and the whole shebang. And really he did carve a number on Ling, under Envy's claws and powerless, it's a wonder Ling even survived. Even so, he can't help feeling disappointed, a boy can't dream nowadays, can he?

 

But Ling just lets out a snort and takes his cold, dead, not there, nada automail hand in his and simply mumbles some Xingese junk, eyes as warm as hearths. Ed's heart soaring a hundred feet high (but not as high as his head) and feels giddily full of soft squishy _stupid_ gunk. That doesn't mean he doesn't like it though.

Everybody wants a piece of this world to call their own, and maybe, Ling wants to crave one up with him.

Edward Eric wasn't a boy on his 16th birthday and he hasn't been one for a long time. But that doesn't mean he can't fall in somewhat ill-proportioned love, the measurement of dopamine, serotonin, vasopressin and oxytocin all doped up, all light and clouds, all thin air and silk cloths. What would Winry say about this? Ed has her earrings digging in his pocket and he's pawning them off tomorrow. He has his promise to her in the back of his mind and the memory of Ling's parachute covered legs crowding his in the train, eyes untrained and lingering on Ed like the wafting scent of apple pies. Ling’s body a sleeping furnace next to him, mostly tired out from Greed bossing people around and himself bugging people around.

 

Oh, another thing worth noting for Ed's budding insanity is that he usually talks to Greedling or mainly Ling while he's sleeping.

 

So Ed rambles, he talks about the merits of sleeping with one eye open and how the canned food tastes like shit and if Ling would mind if Ed gives him some of his share cause he’s a greedy ass bitch that’s becoming progressively skinnier but Greed minds because he’s apparently above them in tastes and style and likes to parade that fact but at least there’s some semblance of respect, even though he likes to act better than them but at least they’re not ants, maybe like stupid children because Ling is sure one big stupid kid. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. And Ed knew a great deal of devils, but they’re all dying now, all writhing and regretting. He takes a look at Ling’s sleeping form, which is clearly his because he’s snoring. Greed is definitely above snoring.

How funny it is that Ed cherishes Ling the most when his body isn't only his anymore, even though Greed and the massive hoard of souls are not the rightful owner, no matter how he brags, drags and runs Ling ragged. Ed wonders if it's because of the common denominator of having misplaced body parts (the whole thing in Ling's case) that used to belong to you or it’s just nothing but the soft dirt under his boots.

Ling's eyebrows seem to say, “The Promised Day doesn't seem so promising huh?” And Edward huffs a small shadow of a laugh, he can’t agree more. And he stops himself from sipping imaginary tea from an imaginary cup with his pinky protruding out, his fingers still threaded with Ling's, but he can't feel anything much there but pressure, this is getting stupid. Then Ling opens his eyes, eyelashes aflutter and iris a swirling violet like distilled wine in the fountain at Leto.

Correction, Greed opens his eyes plus his big ass mouth or _Ling’s_ and starts yapping about bug bites.

 

B side

Ling is terrible at this. He doesn’t dare to open his mouth anymore. Palms sweating erratically and his stomach overcompensating in anticipation that his running ramble may spill out baubles of affection like galloping free-rein horses, misguided as it is, towards Ed. Even if Ed is very sweet, Ling is still a possessed future emperor and Ed is still Ed. Intelligent, headstrong, brilliant and not to mention stunning Ed. He impulsively mashes his hand with Ed's in an ungentlemanly manner and not to mention without consent (Is he asking for a torrent of punches?) because Ling was a little down but now he's almost euphoric and not to mention very, very reckless. He gives Ed a promise that Ed won’t and maybe will never understand because perhaps it isn’t for Ed.

  
**“亦余心之所善兮，虽九死其犹未悔。”** He half whispers, surprisingly terrified of the consequences of his actions yet nothing happens, and Ed keeps yammering on. Ling closes his eyes and smiles to no one whatsoever. He likes to keep the illusion that he can keep a tiny little piece of this, his heart all to himself. Tired and warm, Ling accidently falls into a nap while allowing Greed to open his mouth and stupidly proclaim his war over the mosquitoes.

Interlude

Greed doesn't complain when the prince starts winning his battles.

 

Perhaps he lets him or maybe the prince him knows Greed better than himself or even worse, that Greed's a romantic by heart, and he knows, shit. Which is atrocious by the way, from screaming at him in the sewer to defecting just for friendship is a joke, a heavy-handed manipulation at best, like the steaming bowl of porridge that Greed allows the prince to taste. It's a warning, a show of carbon hands, a note to the Prince that mi casa is mi casa and not tu casa. But the Prince, the Royal Pisser-Off Of The King of The World, cocks his head to the side and rolls out the red carpet wholeheartedly and where's the fun in that?

It's only fun when you're denied, it's only fun when you get to take what you do not have. Getting what you wanted never felt so much like surrender.

When you are deprived of most comforts in life, it turns you complacent. He remembers faint whiffs of companionship tinged with dog breath and wine like blood from a past life. He remembers the bitter tinge of tangerines always on his tongue, fists unclenching, clenching, the Ouroboros tattoo shifting eerily like a memorial. It's all he can do in this useless body of his.

Sometimes when the Prince takes control, he watches his body swerve and pilot like it was never his, feeling like a parasite or some halfwit ghost. Ling tries to make him feel welcomed like Greed's doing him a favour and never intends to collect, it makes him uneasy, unnerved, unhinged. Like he's screaming again with cold iron and melting and forcing out broad swipes of laughter while the dumbasses are dancing around him because _that’s what they’re fucking doing, goddamn teenage hormones_ . Sitting by the campfire, _snuggling_. And who's to say when Greed grows more sullen as the pissant folds his hand into the twerps freezing cold automail.

Bah, fucking ranks in here.

 

When deception runs long enough in your blood it becomes more of an inward pretence. A show of hands become a desperate theatrical effect, colliding and coddling and smashing every mirror he sees because it's not him, but it's uncannily close enough to remind him of what he had lost.

He was never Father's favourite child, the sun isn't going to start shining on him because he realized that.

 

Exhibit 5.

Ed stares at Ling's retreating back, during the Promised Day, trying to find something to say other than a retort or an insult. Watching the sun seep through Ling's shadow until he walks into the light and rays of the evening sunlight shine through Ling’s body like it’s transparent.

 

He’s surprised that nothing comes to mind.

 

B-Side

Sometimes when he can’t sleep, which is more than often now that he’s the emperor, Ling writes back to Ed’s letters but never sends them.

After all, it's therapeutic. After all, Ed has much to look after now that he and Alphonse have their bodies back, all Ling can do now is not to interfere. Ling doesn't require it to be spelled out that he isn't needed. Besides, he has a nation to run, food to eat, people to feed and knows the hard way that _you can’t have everything._  

Regardless, their joint collaboration has ceased to exist, Ling can't seem to remember when did that burst into a small tuft of flames. Sometimes, he misses the noise that comes with sharing a body too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 亦余心之所善兮，虽九死其犹未悔, is a Chinese saying by QuYuan also known as the Patriotic Poet who offed himself via jumping into the sea. The direct english translation of the saying is 'for the ideal that I hold dear to my heart, I’d not regret a thousand times to die,' but to elaborate, it's about a person's perseverance to go after your own dreams/ideals/goals without major alteration. 亦余心之所善兮 means that what your heart desires, wherelse 虽九死其犹未悔 means that even if you die nine ie multiple metaphorical deaths you would not regret a single thing. Which means there are multiple ways this saying could go muahahahaha.
> 
> BONUS POEM:  
> uBlock origin does not approve of our relationship  
> how devotion offers more than the loss of  
> flesh and blood, the offerings of rice to the  
> bereaved and not the dead, a red cup of rice  
> wine the colour of tears, how ambition towers  
> and affection forgets. how grievances come  
> and you are ages away, playing catch-up  
> with suffering because something is snatched  
> out of your empty fist.
> 
> Stomaching these interactions, how  
> your seamless smile and alkaline  
> noodle hair make you a god. your eyes  
> steely like how alchemists wanted riches,  
> teeth the shine of silver blades, your grudging  
> acceptance of my ways like the snapping  
> the stems of bok choy in the middle of  
> the afternoon, rays of sun like the only  
> thing I'm allowed to have, how the bitter  
> light polishes everything into a bleached alabaster.
> 
> this carbon facsimile of my hands in the dark,  
> and every breath I take is in a body twice  
> removed, always sabotaging, how this  
> body controls me and not the other  
> way around. how I am always playing  
> a losing deck and nobody wins.
> 
> but the window is ajar, and life is but  
> an opportunist's wet dream of falling  
> down. how I wish I could stop, how I  
> wish I could take a break, stare at  
> the rising sun or crush some  
> seashells under my bare foot,  
> to clap desire and greed into existence,  
> and if we run, we are running everywhere.


End file.
